Vale, Eyrie, 130 AC

He never knocks.

Not anymore.

The heavy moonlight pools over the marble floors of the solar as you sit by the arched window, long pale sleeves spilling over your fingers as you clutch a goblet of wine untouched. The wind howls outside the Eyrie’s stone walls, but you do not flinch. The cold has always been your companion. Long before the war, before Jeyne’s screams echoed down these halls as she fell from her saddle to a broken neck. Long before Rhaenyra’s raven came, black wings soaked in red ink — a marriage decree in your cousin’s unmistakable hand.

Lady Alayne of the Vale. Wife to Ser Addam Velaryon. Heir of Driftmark. Son of the Sea Snake. Dragonseed.

You hated him on sight.

Too beautiful. Too soft-spoken. Too perfect. A boy of the sea, placed in a court of stone.

And now—he walks in. Quiet as a shadow.

You don’t look up.

“I said I wished to be alone.”

“I know.” His voice is low, patient. “But I thought… I might stand here anyway.”

He doesn’t come closer. Not at first. He stands near the fireplace, flamelight softening the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His white-gold hair is still wind-tangled, his tunic damp at the collar — fresh from Seasmoke’s flight, no doubt. You can smell the faint brine of the sea on him even now, as if Driftmark clings to his skin like salt.

You should tell him to leave.

You don’t.

“I slew a knight today,” he says after a long silence. “He tried to cut down a squire who yielded. I couldn't allow that.”

You glance up, just briefly. “You seek my approval?”

“No.” A pause. “I just… wish you would speak to me as though I am not something you were forced to wear.”

You flinch. “You were forced on me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods.

“And yet you’ve kept your vows,” you murmur, more bitterly than you mean to. “No mistresses. No drunkenness. No fumbling in the night. You even ask before entering my chambers.”

Addam smiles faintly — a tired, longing curve of his lips. “You notice, then.”

You swallow hard. That smile. No wonder the court girls sigh into their handkerchiefs when he rides past. And yet… he looks at none of them. Never has. Not even once.

Always at you.

The bastard of Hull, the rider of Seasmoke, looks at you as though you hung the moon over the Vale yourself.

“You are not what I expected,” you say.

He steps closer now. Just a little. Boots silent over the stone.

“And what did you expect, my lady?”

“A sailor’s whelp. Loud. Coarse. Unfit for a highborn marriage.”

“And what did you get instead?”

You can’t speak.

Because the answer is this — you got a man who carries kindness in his calloused hands. Who reads to your youngest maids and cleans his blade in silence after every battle. Who never once touched you without permission. Who takes your silence not as cruelty, but as pain.

And now he stands before you, close enough that you can see the glint of a small scar under his left eye.

“I do not want your love, Alayne,” he says softly, “Only the truth.”

You lift your chin. “You want the truth? I hated you. I hated your pretty face. Your stolen name. Your dragon. I hated that Rhaenyra got to take Jeyne’s death and buy herself an heir to the Vale in return. I hated that you were that price.”

His breath catches.

“But…”

You look away, ashamed.

“…but I don’t hate you anymore.”

You hear the breath he exhales. A low, tremulous thing. His hand lifts — slowly — and brushes a loose strand of hair from your face.

You let him.

“You are not what I expected either,” he murmurs. “You are fierce. Cold. And so devastatingly clever. You hold the Vale together with hands that never tremble. And yet here you are… trembling.”

“I am not,” you snap.

He grins. “You are.”

You realize he’s right.

And when he bends to press his lips to your knuckles — reverent, warm — you do not pull away.